the heart's thesis
is but a tertiary bedouin
the real love
is the practice of awkward acceptance
Your biography is a mustard seed
on the throne of the acropolis
no one
has loved me like you do
yet I am still in this body
yogis arrive in the am
cleansed by ashtanga
the sangha does kriya
the mountain lion has claws
which leave no marks in their tracks
what does this suggest
but that I am hungry, looking
flipping through cabinets
emptying shelves
with my restless
lack of achievement
it is past 4 and I still have yet to shower, yet to build an ashram
yet to bend like a reed in the wind
dear lover
what has come to pass is but a stretch of imagination
a mere rock in a world of sand
my love,
every compunction must be obliterated
the mind must sin, sin, sin, until it is done
being the elaborate master of its own syndication/vindication
My love
every ounce of pressure
is but a shock
sinking in
I am not lost
but I am finding my way
slowly
like an organic garden
the soil
is so polluted by expectation
that I cannot do downward dog
yet forever I can hold the pose of
awe
but can I shift my gaze to include
my own flaws?
beloved
there are rings for every finger and chants for every circumstance
all I am
is a bed of dirty poems
holding up their begonia flag
waiting on a chance encounter
with Grace
I Love you
Your Beloved
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